


this broken beat

by lupescx



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Romance, basically if her heartbeat came back and they kept traveling, clara doesn't die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupescx/pseuds/lupescx
Summary: Clara's heartbeat restarted. And then it never stopped.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	this broken beat

**Author's Note:**

> because I don't like endings either, and these two deserved better.

Clara had a pulse.

Fingers pressed to her wrist, she nearly wept when she felt the first heartbeat. They’d gone far enough—broken out of Gallifrey’s time-stream. The Raven no longer had a hold on her.

“Doctor, I have a heartbeat,” she said, dizzy with relief. She was breathing again, this time with purpose. Her eyes met the Doctor’s and the hope inside of his was astounding. The desperate tension that hung heavy over the air evaporated, and he broke into a wide and dazzling grin.

He rushed forward from the console, and threw his arms around her. “Clara,” he whispered into her hair. “My Clara. Welcome back.”

Hands wrapped around his shoulders, Clara leaned into him, the full weight of the day finally breaking over her. The enormity of the Doctor’s relief swam at the edges of her mind. This close, she could feel his thoughts and emotions. A profound sense of fear and desire to protect almost overwhelmed her. His deep-seated grief of losing her the first time lingered, and she tightened her grip.

“Never again,” she breathed, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m not leaving you again, you hear me? You’re not going to lose me."

The Doctor finally released her, stepping back to look at her face. “Never again,” he agreed, soft and certain.

It was a promise, one the universe would surely do its best to break. Clara knew the words unsaid between them. Stars had no obligation to a personal vow. Galaxies did not cater to those who asked. The cosmos could be cruel and there was no guarantee of safety for either of them; but the Doctor had already brought her back from the dead once. The universe tried to tear them apart—and it had failed.

Perhaps time would catch up to her eventually, but for now, Clara gazed into the Doctor’s eyes and smiled. She had a heartbeat.

“Where to, then?” she asked, and he stepped back again, towards the console.

“I’ll need my TARDIS, of course. Can’t very well go spinning about in this one—the interior design’s not in taste and the chameleon circuit’s still intact. No offense,” he aimed the last bit at their current TARDIS, which glowed in its pristine white surroundings. “And I’m sure the old girl misses me.”

Clara crossed her arms as he dashed around the console, pressing buttons and pulling levers. His hands danced over the controls, and with a quick smile and a final switch, the shippropelled through the vortex. When it shuddered to a stop—landing smoother than she was used to—she turned to the door. A glance toward the Doctor earned her a nod, and she ran to open it.

Bright light and blue skies greeted her. She stepped out, laughing in the sheer joy of it. “We’re home. Actually, honestly home. Incredible,” she held her arms out and whirled, marveling at the feeling of sun on her skin.

The Doctor watched her from the side, unable to hide his grin. “I do manage to get some things right, you know.”

Clara turned to face him, lowering her arms. She felt radiant. “Most things,” she amended, just the once. “Now, I think we were looking for a time machine?”

———

They did find the TARDIS, and stored the other one somewhere safe and secluded. Clara’s life on Earth had ended—not entirely, but apparently after one year of being missing, the only reasonable conclusion from everyone around was that you were dead. Unsurprisingly, making a sudden resurgence months after your proclaimed mysterious disappearance required a lot of explaining that Clara really did not want to do.

She didn’t have a job anymore. That made sense. Technically, she hadn’t been fired, but it seemed highly inappropriate to show up to work given the circumstances.

Substantially more frustrating, she’d lost the lease to her flat and all of her belongings had been removed. A side effect of being dead is that nothing you owned is yours anymore—at least her dad had collected her more precious items.

The worst part—telling your family that you had a good reason to vanish without alerting them. When Clara finally worked up the courage, her dad had cried and her nan held her tightly, professing that she’d never given up hope. Clara sobbed her broken apologies. The Doctor waited outside the building and embraced her gently when she returned with red eyes and smeared makeup.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he spoke so genuinely that Clara’s already twisted heart broke even more.

“No,” she shook her head. “This isn’t on you. Don’t apologize.”

He took her back to the TARDIS, and they sat together in silent contemplation. In the library, curled in a sofa next to the Doctor, she pressed herself to his chest and listened to his beating hearts. A steady rhythm, off-kilter to her own. She was fortunate to still have one.

“Can I stay with you?” Clara asked.

“Of course. Always. You are never not welcome, Clara,” the Doctor replied. She shifted to meet his gaze, and he looked down into her eyes.

“No, I mean—permanently. On board the TARDIS. Traveling, with you.” Clara stared up at him pleadingly. He wouldn’t reject her.

“Clara,” he began, “this could always be your home, if only you would let it. Are you sure that’s what you want? What about your life—on Earth? Your teaching, your family, all of the little human activities you seemed to enjoy when you weren’t with me. You want to give that up?”

She smiled sadly. “Doctor, it’s already gone. My job, my house, my friends—and I can visit my family whenever. My life... it’s not here anymore. It’s with you.”

He paused for a moment. “If that is what you wish,” he murmured, “then this is your home, now and for however long you desire. All you had to do was ask. I could never deny you, Clara.”

“I know,” and she buried her face into his neck. “Thank you.”

———

There really was no life like that with the Doctor.

Oh, Clara had missed the adventures. The running, the narrow escapes, adrenaline coursing through her veins and the rush that came with each victory. It burned inside of her.

Sometimes it burned too much.

She knew she was clever. But clever wasn’t enough. Clever had killed her, had led her to face the Raven. It was her boldness and ability to take risks that often saved her and the Doctor—but they were also the traits that stopped her heart.

So she tempered the need to burn. For her own sake, she took more care—less risks; still bold, still brave—but no longer the same need to impress, to gamble her own safety on a dime.

The Doctor noticed.

“You’ve changed,” he noted one day, fiddling with the console and averting his gaze. They’d spent the past several hours navigating a carnivorous cavern filled with lava snakes after their tour guide had been eaten, souring the whole evening. The magma crystals had been quite beautiful though, even if Clara’s clothes were singed and they’d both nearly died.

She stopped to look at him, “How so?”

“You take less risks. More cautious,” he said, still fiddling. She crossed her arms.

“Is that bad?” she asked, and he finally glanced up.

“No, it’s nice. Less worrying for me. Means I don’t have to waste time searching for lava snake antidotes or pulling you out of trans-dimensional crevices,” he said, offering her a half-smile.

“Or putting yourself through four-and-a-half billion years of torment to save me,” she replied quietly, and he stopped smiling.

“I don’t want you to bear that,” he said.

Clara shook her head. “There are consequences to my actions. Isn’t it right I try to keep the damage to a minimum?”

The Doctor stared at her, then sighed. “Clara, that is all we can ever do.” He moved to her side, and hesitated before settling a hand on her arm. She closed her eyes at the touch, and leaned forward. A moment passed before he closed the distance, pulling her into an embrace.

“I know I cannot promise you safety,” he said, “and that you do not ask me to. And yet, Clara, you are precious to my hearts, and I know what it is to lose you. That you are here is more than I could ever ask for.”

Again, Clara knew the words unspoken. Between what he did and didn’t say lay the reason for her caution. She couldn’t even think of losing him—too many times, they’d come close to that precipice. For him to put himself through such torment just to bring her back... that level of dedication. The least she could do was try her best to be more careful. She wouldn’t put him through that again—already, guilt settled in her for the pain he experienced on her behalf. If there was any way she could avoid hurting him, she would choose it, every time.

———

In the gardens of Echelor, Clara trailed beside the Doctor, only half-listening to his ramble about the planet’s history and why its flora was so unique. The place really was beautiful, and the flowers did bloom with breathtaking radiance, but her attention was held by the Doctor’s voice—not so much his words, as fascinating as they were—but the familiar timbre, the elevated amusement he spoke with on unassuming days such as these.

It’s true that sometimes the words out of his mouth made her want to slap him, but the scenery was so pleasant and the weather so perfect that she was content to just listen.

“See, the Echelorians had just ended the bloodiest war in their entire history—they couldn’t very well just sign a treaty and move on—the tenuous alliance that came about barely kept the suddenly merged nations from tearing each other apart. And then of course, there were the bodies—millions in the battlefield. So, to resolve the tension, the newly-established democracy ordered the transformation of places of war into places of peace. Hence the gardens,” the Doctor was saying.

“So, we’re standing in a battlefield? What did they do with the bodies?” Clara asked, speaking for the first time in several minutes. The Doctor smiled grimly at her.

“Fertilizer,” he replied, motioning to the lush foliage all around them.

She stopped, glancing at the entrancing petals of the flower she’d been leaning over and back to him. “What, really? That was okay?”

He shrugged. “Death unto life. What better way to memorialize your dead?”

“A cemetery, then,” she mused. Stepping forward, she traced her fingers over the veins of a leaf. Smooth to the touch—grown from someone’s corpse. She held back a shudder and turned to the Doctor. “It’s beautiful. Sad, but beautiful.”

He nodded quietly, then held his arm out, indicating to the pathway. She linked her elbow with his and they began to walk again, the Doctor speaking softer now.

“The last time I came here, it was for a wedding,” he said, piquing Clara’s interest.

“Oh? How’d you know them?” she asked.

“I didn’t, really. A message on my psychic paper. Could have been a trap, I suppose, but I went anyway. Apparently I saved their lives, earning me a telepathic invite to their union. That’s what people do, these days,” he replied.

“Was it nice?” she looked at him from the side. He peered at her.

“Nice is overrated. Large crowd. No cake, unfortunately. All the guests were telepaths—makes for very sincere or very awkward interactions. Never think rude thoughts when everyone around can read your mind,” he said, smiling wryly.

Clara laughed, and lost herself in the conversation as they walked. The easy closeness felt good—no threats, no running, just her and the Doctor on an afternoon stroll through a graveyard. Days like this, without all the danger, brought a different kind of fulfillment. Before the Raven, she craved the fear and chased the adrenaline. Now, the times of peace, even when relative, felt crucial to her existence. Maybe it was because she no longer had the reprieve of her life on Earth.

Regardless, the warmth of the local sun and the Doctor’s company created a pleasant buzz of emotions. She never wanted this to end.

———

One year aboard the TARDIS as a full-time resident, and the life Clara used to lead lingered at the edge of her mind.

It’s not that she wanted to leave. She was exactly where she wanted to be, where she always wanted to be.

Still, she didn’t forget. Her life had once revolved around a boundary—her time with the Doctor, and her time on earth in the present. Now the line dissolved. There was no more pretending—while there was no doubt that she loved her old life, she wouldn’t go back to it.

But she couldn’t deny her past. Clara thought of Ashildr, who’d lived so long that she couldn’t even remember her given name. That haunted her—she valued her memories, all of them. Even the ones that hurt.

Sitting in the silence of her room, Clara set the book she’d been reading to the side. For several minutes, she’d scanned the same page. Her mind continued to wander. She sighed.

It was late. Late for even her standards. There wasn’t exactly a set schedule of time on the TARDIS, but she was kind enough to provide some semblance of a day/night cycle.

Clara rubbed her eyes, shifting on her bed. The Doctor disappeared hours ago, rambling a list of various repairs and modifications he needed to make before darting out of the control room. _Evading something_ , she’d thought, before shrugging and making her own exit.

“He looked tired,” Clara said aloud, vaguely towards the ceiling. “What do you think?”

The TARDIS hummed in response. In the beginning, she and Clara’s relationship had been frustrating. Vicious, even—the ship had been standoffish since she’d arrived, much to the Doctor’s distress. It wasn’t until later, after his regeneration, that Clara found peace; no more misplaced bedrooms or unfairly cold showers. She liked to think they’ve become friends, or as close as you can be with a sentient time-traveling spaceship.

“Hmm,” Clara echoed. “Show me where he is?”

The lights flickered softly, and Clara slid off the bed. She was still in leggings and a tank top—decent enough.

Leaving her room behind, she walked down the hall, subdued in the low lighting. She’d gotten lost before, but not in a while. Doors passed by, but it wasn’t until she reached one for lesser maintenance that she stopped.

“Thanks,” she whispered, and the TARDIS quietly clanged. Clara stepped inside.

The room was covered in panels. Five columns of complex-looking machinery created a circle in the center. Clara moved closer. The Doctor was leaned back against one of the columns, wires pooling out next to him. Judging by the array of tools around him, he must have fallen asleep on accident.

“Doctor,” Clara said, crouching down. She scanned his face. He looked exhausted.

She said his name again. He stirred.

“Clara?” he shook his head, blinking up at her. “Why are you here?”

She frowned, almost hurt. “Why are you hiding?”

“I’m not,” he said unconvincingly. She peered at him.

“Okay,” she began, “you don’t have to tell me what this is about. Just get up, and come with me.”

Clara stood up and held out her hand. Warily, the Doctor took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “Where to, boss?”

Still holding his hand, she walked them into the hall. “Somewhere much nicer than the floor,” she answered.

“Nice is overrated,” he scoffed, but there was no bite to it. His voice was tired. Everything about him seemed tired. How had she not noticed sooner?

They arrived at her door, and she pulled him inside. She dimmed the lights. Quietly, he took off his jacket and boots. Clara didn’t say anything, but they’d done this enough times that she didn’t need to.

She settled into bed and he followed her. Usually, he stayed on top of the covers; fully clothed, noncommittal. This time was no different, except when he leaned back he automatically opened his arms for her to get close. Without hesitation, Clara pressed against his side and lay her head on his chest. It had been a long time since he’d given up his pretense against touch. Now, he accepted it, even initiated it—but only with her. These moments were theirs alone.

Arm wrapped around his waist, Clara listened to his heartbeats. _Such a lovely sound_ , she’d always thought. To have even one was ineffably precious. Her mind drifted. It was hardly every night that they slept like this together—a large majority they did spend in their own worlds. That didn’t mean she didn’t crave it. She respected his boundaries, of course, and wouldn’t push him into anything he didn’t want. It’s just that sometimes, she wondered if he was holding back for the same reason.

“You know you can come here anytime,” she whispered, “you don’t have to be alone. Whatever it is, don’t face it alone, Doctor.”

There was only silence for a moment, and then, “Clara,” he said, voice even lower than hers, “with you, I am never alone. Do you remember what I told you, in the cloisters?”

She inhaled quickly, “Yes, of course.”

He gazed at her; eyes tired, yes, but soft—emotional. “So you know what you mean to me,” he murmured, “and you know how far I would go for you. That I could never deny you, if you asked.”

Nodding slightly, she thought she understood. One year since that hushed confession on Gallifrey. A long time to wait on something already given. Something they’d been dancing around for much longer before then.

“I know,” she said, and she really, really did. Clara shifted so she was only inches from his face. “So, I’m asking,”

His pupils dilated, and he needed no further admission. He closed the distance and kissed her.

It started slow, evolving quickly as Clara realized that this was actually happening. Leaning forward, she deepened the kiss as his arms wrapped around her waist. She brought a hand to the Doctor’s face, holding him steady and close. In his embrace, she felt warmth and comfort and—something new and rising, and very worth exploring.

For a moment, she was content to just be with him, and then he bit her lower lip. She moved to straddle him, allowing herself to be pulled on top. The kiss had sweetened into something much hotter, and if she was gauging this right, neither of them wanted to stop. Her hands were just beginning to unbutton his shirt when she paused.

“Wait,” she said, pulling back. “I don’t think we should go any further tonight.”

The Doctor blinked up at her, looking far more engaged than before, but still tired underneath. “If that’s what you wish,” he replied, grip loosening around her hips.

“No, I mean—if we’re going to do this, I want you to be rested. Awake, I mean,” she explained quickly, before he got the wrong idea.

“Ah,” he said, hands now trailing back up her sides, “perhaps you have a point.”

Somehow both disappointed and relieved, she rolled off of him, still facing him on her side. The Doctor didn’t let go of her, watching her with something like reverence.

“Hey,” she said, moving her hand to cup his jaw. “Get some sleep. I’ll be here,”

He nodded, and pulled her so that she curled up against him. There, close to the Doctor—Clara knew she was exactly where she wanted to be. Eyes closed, she drifted into sleep.

———

Everything had changed, and nothing had changed. Clara woke to exactly the same relationship. They travelled time and space—exploring, laughing, running—and bickering, of course—but mostly running.

The kissing was new, and all that entailed, but aside from sharing the same bed at night, there was no real difference in how they acted around each other. Longing gazes intact; no longer hidden. The Doctor ran out of excuses for seeking her affection ages ago, though he’d never been so brazen. She’d given him permission; it had never occurred to her that maybe that was all he needed.

In other words, all was good. Great—fantastic, even. He let her touch him and she loved to touch him. No more pretense. Just Clara and the Doctor, spinning away in a blue phone box for as long as the universe would let them.

That didn’t mean it was perfect, but was anything? The two of them blazed across the stars, leaving behind people and planets—some saved, some lost—but mostly seen. It didn’t have to end in tragedy. Clara remembered craving the next adventure; she still loved that rush, when it came, but it wasn’t a game. Too much at stake these days.

This she pondered on a world that never ceased to rain. Propped by a windowsill, watching the thick droplets slide down the glass, Clara couldn’t help but find the scenery beautiful.

Perhaps she should have found it gloomy, but the dark skies and deep, resounding thunder invoked something hidden within her. A chord she didn’t know existed struck just right, aligning to her heartbeat.

“It’s the frequency,” the Doctor said, pulling her out of her reverie. She blinked at him from across the table.

At her expecting look, he continued. “That feeling you have, in your chest. An intrinsic sense of calm. Like you’re exactly where you need to be,” he closed the book he was reading, focusing his attention solely on her. “It’s not only you. The thunder has that effect on everybody. Think of it like a tuning fork, harmonizing the whole population.”

“So, you feel it too,” Clara leaned forward, “is that why you brought us here? Not that I’m complaining, the ambience of this place is seriously incredible. Plus, the tea is amazing,” she took a sip from her cup. Warm, sweet, and unlike anything she ever tried before.

“Yes, ah, that’s why we’re here,” the Doctor affirmed, glancing to the window. They were seated in a small café of sorts, cozy and dry compared to the outside storm. “I came here often, during a previous regeneration of mine. The one before Bow-Tie, I think.”

“That’s a long time ago,” she said. “Feeling nostalgic?”

He shrugged, looking back at her. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, “mostly here for the rain.”

“It is lovely,” Clara agreed, looking closer at him. His eyes were contemplative, reflecting the outside storm. These days, he was so open with her. She remembered that plea, so long ago—to just see him. That request went both ways. Impulsively, she reached out to hold his hand.

She curled their fingers together, him watching her with a softer expression. Touch, she knew, could create a link. Skin to skin telepathy. Once, he told her that this regeneration felt it stronger than the last few.

Focusing on him, she let her mind brush his. Hesitant, quiet, nothing invasive. A connection grew, and she closed her eyes as the Doctor’s thoughts swirled around her.

He was always so careful, so gentle when initiated. Rarely, in times of distress, she sensed the whirlwind of his mind; complicated jumbles of ideas and shining moments of clarity. Here, the intensity softened.

A wave of fondness nearly took her breath away. The feeling was a constant in their connections, but it still dizzied her.

_Do you want to see?_

She nodded at his quiet question.

An image engulfed her. The Doctor, much younger, sitting in this cafe with a red-headed woman. She was laughing at something he’d said, eyes sparkling with joy. That same content rumble Clara felt now was echoed in the memory.

“That’s Donna,” Clara breathed, smiling at the warmth of the moment.

The memory continued into a series; Donna and him, arms linked looking into distant stars; laughing after running for their lives; strolling down a meadow of blue grass; her, blazing with brilliance at the center of a Dalek army.

Finally, eyes filled with tears, _I was gonna be with you forever._

The guilt that followed rushed over Clara. She didn’t expect the pang to be so intense, and pulled back.

“Sorry,” the Doctor said, releasing her hand. Before he could draw his back, she gripped it in place.

“It doesn’t get easier, does it?” she asked, the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. “It stays with you, even after all this time,”

He stayed silent for a moment, and then, “No, it never leaves. Everyone... that I lose, they become a part of me. Some are easier to bear than others, and some...”

_It hurts too much to think about,_ she finished.

_Yes,_ he tightened his grasp on her, and she thought she understood.

So close. They had come so, so close to that fate; her death another in a long line of tragedies in the Doctor’s life. How long would he hold that pain?

_It’s not going to happen,_ she assured him, but she didn’t really know how long she could keep that promise.

Inevitably, she was mortal, and with that, she would—

_Don’t finish that._

The Doctor interjected, pulling her away from that dangerous downward spiral. Clara shuddered, withdrawing from the connection.

“Best not,” she agreed, bringing her hand back to wipe away residual tears. The thunder rumbled overhead, salving the rising tension. Uncertainty ebbed, tuning back to the harmony of the planet. Quietly, she turned towards the window and watched the rain pour down.

———

It’s three years since Clara joined the Doctor; three years since she died on Earth; three years since she faced the raven.

The time it took Clara to realize that something was different—that something had changed—was almost embarrassingly long. If she were really paying attention, perhaps she would have noticed sooner. It wouldn’t be so shocking, she tells herself.

See, the trouble with getting older is that you never notice it actually taking place. Only after months pass does one realize their hair has grown longer, or that as the years go by their face becomes more defined; it’s only looking back that change is visible.

So when Clara looked into the mirror, maybe it’s not really so surprising that she didn’t realize she hadn’t been aging.

Her stomach dropped when she first had the thought and knew instantly that it was true. She stood in front of her reflection, scrolling through old photos of just before everything—not a single day’s difference it seemed, aside from a new haircut. With each moment, dread pressed deeper into her chest. The truth was hidden from her.

It’s with strange clarity that Clara found herself trailing the TARDIS halls. What started as vague wandering sharpened into purpose. She needed answers.

The TARDIS seemed reluctant to lead her to the Doctor, but she eventually found him in one of his many laboratories; standing over a work-bench, tinkering with an unrecognizable object. Any other day she might ask about it, but something cold coiled itself around her insides, constricting her throat.

He looked up and opened his mouth to greet her, but paused. “Did something happen?” he asked, in a stroke of remarkable perception. She stood frozen in the doorway.

“Did you know?” she replied tightly.

He frowned. “You’re upset,”

“Give me a reason not to be. _Tell me you didn’t know._ ” Her eyes burned. The Doctor looked stricken, regarding her with apprehension.

“I’m not sure what you’re referencing—”

She cut him off. “Why haven’t I been aging, Doctor?”

Silence. He doesn’t deny it, and though she already knew in her heart the truth it hurt to live it.

“It’s true,” Clara said, more to herself than anything. “Why, why wouldn’t you tell me? What made you keep this a secret? And don’t you dare lie to me, it’s been three years and I deserve the truth.”

“Yes, you do,” he agreed, moving around the workbench to stand in front of her.

She folded her arms, waiting for an explanation. “Well?”

He regarded her carefully. “On Gallifrey,” he began, “I extracted you from what would have been the moment you died. You didn’t have a heartbeat. Only through Time Lord technology were you alive.”

She nodded, remembering. Life between one heartbeat and the next. “Okay, but we left. I have a heartbeat now.”

“Yes,” he said, “which is why I couldn’t be certain until later. We broke the timeline, and time resolved itself. But while your pulse returned, you still came back through technology that was never supposed to be used in that way. It preserves you even now as you were then—that is to say, you breathe, your blood flows, your heart beats and your skin heals; but you will never age.”

Hearing it out loud shocked Clara more than she expected. Dizzied, she took a breath, and leaned her hand against the doorway. “What does that mean—am I like Me? Immortal?”

The Doctor hesitated. “No, not like her. She lives because she heals, endlessly. You can still injure yourself, can still be mortally wounded. But you won’t ever die of old age.”

“Except, I’m still human. My memory isn’t like yours. If Me couldn’t even remember her own name, her own children, what chance do I have?” Clara felt tears come to her eyes. She couldn’t help it this time, much as she hated to. That cold coil now burned with sudden fear and inexplicable grief.

To her surprise, the Doctor moved closer, gentler than usual. “You have a human mind that is sustained by Gallifreyan technology. Ashildr is at a disadvantage there. You won’t forget. Not that which is important to you, at least; no promises about grocery lists and birthdays.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, but it was a bitter, reluctant sound. “You hid this from me.”

“I was going to tell you—”

“When?” she snapped suddenly. “At what point did you think was the right time? Because it’s not now, Doctor, you are three years too late.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know.”

“You shouldn’t have kept this from me,” and this time there was a frigid, sharp edge to her voice. “You don’t get to do that with my life. Think about that, as long as it takes for you to understand before you come and find me.”

With that, she stepped back into the hallway and stalked off.

———

She found herself in the library, hidden on a sofa in a corner on the upper level. There’s no real solitude on the TARDIS but she had no quarrel with the ship anyway.

Her heart ached. Maybe the Doctor hadn’t outright lied to her, but it still felt like a betrayal. So much time spent withholding. She thought they’d gotten past this—no more hiding, not since that night now long ago. Or she’d expected too much. He would always have his secrets, and usually she was content not to know, but this was different. This affected her directly.

It wasn’t just hurt she felt. She needed to process what he’d actually told her. That she was, functionally, immortal. As long as she lived, she would never age. And now she could, to her understanding, live a long, long time.

The Doctor said she wasn’t like Ashildr, and she understood the difference but couldn’t get the girl out of her mind. How much did she lose in the time between when Clara first saw her and last saw her? Friends, family, all lost to time. Eternity was lonely. She knew that enough by association.

Then, she understood. Or at least more than she had. Time Lords aged, they regenerated, but their lifespans were much longer than many other sentient beings in the universe. Humans especially, fragile and short-lived by nature. The Doctor spent so much time on Earth, and yet everyone was so temporary; like mist on a window. How many people had _he_ lost? The ones she knew about were just a portion of all those in his life.

Clara came back from the brink of death. Almost another soul in the ocean of losses. Even then, she would have eventually succumbed to the flickering matchstick of humanity.

Now, she never would—not that way, at least. _That’s why._

He couldn’t bear to lose her the first time, so what a relief it must have been to find out she wouldn’t fear the same fate as everybody else. And what a terrible way to put it. Separate from the rest of humankind.

“He didn’t want to be alone,” she murmured into the silence of the library. Then she hissed in frustration. “ _Idiot,_ he should have told me.”

Hours passed. This would take a while to get used to.

———

Finally, Clara stretched her legs and stood up. She left the library, and this time the TARDIS led her straight to him.

In the console room, the Doctor was messing with something on one of the screens. His eyes were focused but he seemed nervous.

“Planning an exit?” she asked, tentatively moving closer.

He looked up at her, face carefully blank. The wariness in his gaze—like he expected her to yell at him—did hurt, but she refused to let it wash away what she needed to say.

“You can’t expect me to be okay with this,” she said, quieter. “And I’m not. I am angry with you. I might be for a while.”

Hesitantly, he came around the console to stand before her. “As you should be,” he replied. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “I forgive you.”

He closed his eyes, and some of the tension drained from the room. When he opened them, he held her gaze. “I cannot fix the past,” he admitted, “you know that as well as I do. However, I can promise you the truth. From here on, no more secrets.”

Clara returned his stare, then sighed. “You did fix the past, I’m living proof of that. I may neverfully understand why you hid this but I agree, no more secrets. I promise if you promise.”

With this, he stepped closer, reaching for her hand to lift it to his lips. “I promise.”

He kissed her knuckle, barely a touch, and her eyes fluttered shut before capturing his again.

“I promise.”

The Doctor let her hand drop back to her side. This wasn’t resolved, not entirely. She needed to work through this. But the sizzling anger had dissipated and in its place reconciliation began to take hold. Forgiveness didn’t mean she couldn’t feel hurt. She could love him and hold the promise of commitment at the same time, because the feelings were not mutually exclusive. It would be a disservice to both of them if she didn’t give herself the proper time to process.

The promise hung between them, and she knew that the stars would stop at nothing to break it, because the natural state of the universe trends towards chaos and their lives had never been peaceful.

So she smiled, sad and hopeful in the way she knew he always protested because _how can you have so many emotions at one time?_

But this time, she knows he understands.

———

Time heals all, they say. Even non-linear, wibbly-wobbly time mended fractured bones and broken hearts.

In time, Clara understood. The hurt healed and she no longer felt afraid.

On the pink shores of some beach planet, she looked into the rosy sky and saw eternity ahead. The still sea reflected the yawning clouds in all of their perfection. There was no more room in her for resentment, and in the light of a setting star all she thought of was how privileged she was to stand here, alive with a beating heart.

When it had restarted on that TARDIS all those years ago, she barely believed it—to find out that it would never stop had seemed like such a curse. Now, she knew she was blessed.

Distantly, she was aware of the Doctor kneeling to observe some sort of shell or creature off to the side. She smiled. He’d been so scared of losing her, risking everything just to bring her back from the brink. Now she was here, and she never wanted to leave.

The local sun finally dipped just below the horizon, casting the surface in quiet darkness. The Doctor came to stand next to her. Clara reached out a hand, and their fingers intertwined.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and she turned to look at him. The stars reflected perfectly in his eyes, even more than the sky on the water.

“Yeah,” she replied, “incredible, even. You?”

He smiled softly. “Me too,”

This time, Clara didn’t need a tuning-fork storm or harmonizing frequencies to tell her that the Doctor felt just as content as she did.

Through his hand she knew the rhythm of his double-heartbeat didn’t match her own single heart, but that didn’t matter. They both beat, and that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> edited for typos!!


End file.
